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It had been quite a while since he had thought about it, all things considered. Sure, there were moments of injury or grievous bodily harm, but that was nothing a spare potion or trip to Withers couldn’t solve. That was the life of a vagabond adventurer, he supposed - rarely clean, even more rarely safe, and requiring a very direct approach to most problems.
Being around immortals for the better part of two centuries didn’t exactly make it a common thing to think about. That part of his life had largely been dedicated to surviving, trying to persevere through the horrors of his life. Despite the death and blood surrounding him, it was rare that Astarion Ancunín thought about mortality.
Maybe one of the first things that made the issue apparent to him was in inspecting Gale, the most human of the ragtag group. Actually, the only human of the group, given Wyll's current circumstances.
Astarion had seen magic users fight before, surely, but rarely did he watch them trek for meters or sleep on the rocky ground. They tended to be rather fragile, he found. But the other man was, for all intents and purposes, a rather soft individual. It was not uncommon during breakfast to hear how Gale's back would hurt, his knees would ache, and how his body was otherwise so fragile.
At Gale’s own admittance, Astarion knew the wizard had spent little time outside of his tower prior to their unfortunate abduction. His closest companion during that time, aside from his mother, had been a cat for gods’ sake. Apologies, Astarion would correct, a tressym .
As such, Gale was soft. His clothing had not been repaired or patched repeatedly. His hands were uncalloused, save one from the repeated holding of a quill. Unused to the running and gallivanting typical of an adventurer, the scholar was rather plush around the waist. He was not particularly strong or athletic, but his brain was certainly an adequate substitute for brawn. Gale was a scholar, after all. He was meant to be reading books with small text - not fighting kobolds or scaling mountains.
More than once, Astarion had witnessed him wearing a small pair of glasses. It was usually when Gale was exceptionally tired but still determined to remain awake and absorb even more information. On those occasions, the bonfire had burned low, and small motes of dancing lights surrounded his hair streaked with grey. A rather delicate, rounded pair of glasses sat on the bridge of his nose as he looked down at whatever book had attracted his attention that day. One night, after finding himself a meal and returning to camp, the vampire spawn decided to ask about them.
“Do you really need those?” Astarion had asked, jolting Gale out of whatever tired reverie the latter had been lounging in. “The glasses, I mean.” He pointed a pallid finger towards his own eyes, as if for clarity.
He nearly jumped at the voice. The wizard looked up, face flushed with embarrassment at his overreaction. His eyebrows were raised towards his hairline, concern knitted between them.
“Hells, Astarion! Please warn a man before sneaking up on him next time,” Gale sighed, relaxing his shoulders. “I know that might be difficult given your exceptionally stealthy nature but-”
The rogue had also noted that Gale had a tendency to ramble when embarrassed. If he wasn’t rambling, the other was usually adjusting his hands nervously or running a hand through his hair. It was all rather… human, for lack of a better word. Maybe some of the nervous twitching he had reflected in his aches and pains.
“Gale.”
The man shut his mouth, flush returning to his face, sentence dying in his throat.
“Um… Yes, my friend?”
“The glasses,” Astarion repeated, mock exasperation in his voice.
Gale brought a hand to the frames, as if he had forgotten they were even there. He took them off, folding the arms in before tucking them into a pocket somewhere on his person. A flick of the wrist and he produced a ribbon to mark his spot in the book before closing it and setting it aside.
“Ah, yes. The spectacles,” he murmured. “I only acquired them relatively recently. I…” Gale hesitated for a moment. “I noticed my eyesight has been worsening as of late.”
Perhaps Astarion had been silent for too long, or the expression on his face had done something that had escaped his notice. Gale raised an eyebrow before continuing.
“I know it surely doesn’t compare with darkvision or the like, but it’s rather helpful, I suppose. Getting older and such…”
The rambling had begun again, fading into a soft murmur in the background as Astarion thought for a moment. Sure, he knew others who wore glasses, but he had never thought about them that much.
“Gale.”
“Ah, I’m doing it again, aren’t I? No matter. What is it?”
“You look nice in them," Astarion settled on. Any trace of his typical flirtatious attitude had dropped.
That truly shut the wizard up for a moment. The flush, which had remained on his face since the last interruption, only intensified in color. His eyes sparkled golden in the dying light of the fire’s crackling embers, his gaze quickly returning to the logs.
“Oh.” He cleared his throat, clearly unsure of how to respond. “Thank you, Astarion.”
There was a moment of soft, fragile silence between the two men as they both sat in the moment. While Gale had directed his attention to the fire pit, Astarion looked towards him nonchalantly. The spawn took in the grey pulled through a mess of wavy brown hair, the crow’s feet around his eyes, and soft lines between his eyebrows. He noted the softness of the other's waist, the way a hand rested on the cover of the disregarded book, the gently rise and fall of shoulders.
“You’re so human.”
“Pardon?” Gale was no longer flushed in the face.
“You’re pardoned.”
“No, I mean,” Gale huffed in exasperation. “What do you mean by that?” His eyes turned back to the elf occupying the space with him, surprised by the distant look in the other’s eyes.
“I mean that you’re so different from the others,” Astarion replied. “Everyone else was so young or perfect or what have you. But you… you’re so interesting.”
Quietly, Gale connected the dots. Compared to the other spawn Astarion had spent time with during his decades of enslavement, Gale was a novelty as a human. He wasn’t immortal nor preserved in youth. He was simply a middle-aged wizard, far out of his element and settled precariously by a fire.
“Oh," he murmured, turning brown eyes back to the crackling timber and ashes. Ashes to ashes.
“It’s quite fascinating, isn’t it?” Astarion chuckled after a second, a soft hollow thing he often did when reflecting on his past. “All these years and I find aging to be one of the things I miss the most.”
Gale responded with an empty laugh of his own, sighing. “It’s certainly not the most pleasant thing. However, I’ve hardly thought about it much, what with my whole-”
He clutched at his chest, sentence dying mid-phrase. Though it might have been psychological, Gale could swear he felt the orb under his skin pulse harder for a moment before calming again. It had been stabilized, sure, but it still remained implanted, echoing next to his own heartbeat. It was almost painful, knowing that this orb would keep pulsing long after his heart's beating would cease. Magic didn't age or die. It simply changed.
“Gale? Are you alright?”
The wizard perked up, refocusing on the conversation at hand. He let go of the front of his robe, sitting up straighter. He attempted to smile, but the expression felt more superficial. It was more “Gale of Waterdeep,” than Gale Dekarios. Astarion was reminded of one of the first days upon their meeting, how the tightness at the corner's of the other's mouth had concerned him. At the time, it might have been out of worry that a stake would soon land firmly in his rib cage. However, such nerves softened as the days progressed.
Of course, very few things escaped Astarion’s notice. Under the surface of a calm expression, he recalled years of deception, of himself and of others, both subtle and explicit, as well as plenty of time schooling his own expressions and words. Readjusting his sitting position, the vampire spawn leaned towards his companion, putting a cold hand to a burning cheek. He was careful not to let his blatant concern flash across his face.
“What are you doing?” the wizard asked, turning away from the fire.
A cool thumb wiped under Gale’s left eye. The practiced smile broke for just a moment, eyes wetting as he looked into blood red irises.
“You were crying, darling,” Astarion responded, smiling softly. “Can’t have that.”
It was as if there had been a cauldron inside of Gale, always simmering quietly under the surface with thoughts and feelings. But Astarion, much like an apprentice alchemist, had quietly shifted the pot and it all bubbled over, leaving behind a mess.
Gale's shoulders collapsed as he folded slightly in on himself, deep shuddering breaths racking his body. Vision glazed over, smile crumpling as drops of water landed in his lap, speckling the purple fabric. Astarion’s hand had fallen away from his face and Gale, aching for comfort, had never hated himself more. He knew this was little more than his unnecessary dramatics.
The rogue moved quickly, catching Gale as the man sagged towards the ground, tear streaks glistening in the firelight. Lithe, cold hands held the wizard by the shoulder and graced a soft hip. In front of his very eyes, the legend of Waterdeep had been reduced to a quietly breaking man within his grasp.
Astarion felt guilty, cursing his cold stature. He was ill-equipped to soothe someone emotionally, and his lack of physical warmth would only worsen the situation. Unsure, the hand on Gale’s hip gently rubbed at his side, trying to seem confident in the motion. The spawn sat quietly, trying to rack his own mind for acts of consolation he could provide without compromising his own comfort. Though he truly wanted to, Astarion was unsure if he could hold the other without slowly losing his own composure or dissociating.
Aside from the shaking of his shoulders, the man’s crying was a muffled, soft thing. It was as if he had trained himself to confront sorrow unnoticed and uninterrupted. Recalling stories of Gale's earlier years, Astarion imagined a younger, much less confident Gale Dekarios, quietly crying while being reprimanded by his goddess. The rogue clenched his jaw, trying to will away the anger for now.
“-starion?”
A broken word disrupted the train of thought and Astarion put on his softest smile, hoping Gale would be unable to tell it was forced. He wasn't sure what else to do. Charisma had never failed him before, so it was all he knew how to do.
“Yes, darling?”
“I…” the wizard started, looking up towards the pale visage. “I’m sorry.”
The smile fell as quickly as it had been molded into his face. Astarion furrowed his eyebrows together, looking into wet brown eyes.
“Whatever for?” he murmured, the hand moving from a shoulder to reach back up to Gale’s face.
A rush of emotions filled Astarion’s body when Gale raised a hand to cover the one on his cheek. Warm palms seeped heat into cold, graceful hands.
“I didn’t want… I didn’t want to do this to you.”
“What do you mean?”
The man who had spent hours rambling on the road was gone. Any verbosity or confidence had bled from Gale’s body as easy as blood from a wound. A solemn, sad smile crossed the man’s face as he closed his eyes, leaning into Astarion’s palm.
“I don’t want you to worry about it. You don’t need to worry about me or my life or when I die.”
The cold, unbeating heart in the vampire’s chest broke. An unnecessary breath hitched in his throat. He knew where the sentiment had come from, and the anger previously settled beneath the surface gave way to rejection.
“You’re not dying or blowing yourself up or what have you to prove a point to a goddess,” he choked out. "It's not fucking fair to ask you to do that, and you know it."
“What difference does it make?” Gale sighed out, resigned and melancholy. “I can’t go on like this, Astarion. I can’t keep living knowing there’s nothing left in this world for me here after we deal with the Absolute.”
It was so familiar. From the resignation in his voice to the quiet acceptance of an undeserved ending - Astarion knew the feeling. It had plagued him for two centuries full of darkness and decay, blood and bile. It had filled every waking moment of his life until awaking under the sunlight, a breeze rustling the grass around him, tadpole firmly behind his eye.
By instinct, the spawn pulled back like he had been burnt. Gale’s eyes flew open as the agile hand beneath his palm recoiled. He sat up, looking at his companion, all stiffened up and shaking.
“Don’t do that,” he murmured, fangs catching the light as eyes looked vacantly into the fire. “Don’t say that.”
“Astarion, please, I-” Gale reached towards the other man, trying so desperately to hold onto something. This didn't need to be so difficult, he reasoned. It would only take a moment of explanation.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” the vampire spawn whispered. His arms wrapped around himself, bringing his knees to his chest in an attempt to stop shaking. "You share books and stories with me. You save me trinkets and blood and thread. You give me so much attention and time."
All hopes of explaining anything washed out of Gale's system, replaced by bitter humor. How funny it was that an elf, a vampire spawn elf at that, could say something so drastic about a short-lived creature such as himself. He wasn't special. He was hardly extraordinary. Take away his title and his magic and all that was left was Gale Dekarios, an aging, bookish man who never knew when to shut up.
Gale chuckled hollowly, “I’m sure you could find someone else t-”
Astarion turned and grabbed the man’s shoulders with so much haste and precision it might have been terrifying in another context. But Gale had no reason to fear Astarion. His red eyes were full of tears, sadness built up over two hundred years of despair.
“There is and only ever will be only one you, you beautiful, foolish man.” The tears slid down his cheeks, trailing down pale skin before falling into the grass cloaked in growing darkness. “You’re far too stubborn to see that. Your bleeding heart does nothing but weep. The cruel world doesn’t deserve you. Mystra doesn’t deserve you.”
Astarion quieted, before whispering, “I don’t deserve you.”
The strong grasp on Gale’s shoulders loosened before the vampire’s hands fell and hung at the sides of his torso. Wine-colored eyes looked off into the distance, clouding over.
Gale deflated. Before, he was ready to argue about sworn duty, allegiances to his goddess, his own mortality, and the lack of anyone to mourn him - save maybe Tara and his mother. Now, it was as if the wind had fallen out of his sails.
It was a shock to his system, built so carefully after years spent in his tower. Eating, reading, studying, sleeping - all things to be done alone and without ceremony. But now, any pretense of solitary existence that existed before dissolved.
Gale hadn’t realized that he wasn’t alone anymore. He hadn’t been for a while.
“I’m… I’m so sorry, Astarion,” he whispered. “I didn’t realize that others would even care.”
“Of course I care,” the other responded weakly. “With you, I don’t know how to do anything but.”
He said it so matter of factly, as if it would be ridiculous to suggest that Astarion could hold nothing but care and fondness for the wizard occupying his company.
A moment of silence blanketed the camp, like a heavy fog or the wash of a spell. The last of the fire crackled, small embers floating into the sky before disintegrating.
The vampire spawn finally broke the stalemate, looking towards his companion with a sad smile on his face.
“What a couple we must make, hm?”
A beat of quiet and then the uproarious laughter of certain wizard. The man in the purple robe sat up, raising his arm and inviting the other to come closer. Astarion shuffled noiselessly, tucking himself into Gale’s shoulder. They both stared into the dying fire, a silent agreement to never be alone again.
“You know," Gale finally said. "Despite it all, there is one good thing this world has done for me.”
“What would that be, my dear?” Astarion pondered.
He expected something simple, like a reference to Tara or to the books crowding the floor of a tent.
“It gave me the chance to meet you.”
The smile was painfully genuine, crow's feet crinkling around eyes of an aging man. The elf chuckled softly.
“You know, I can still change my mind.”
“But you won't. You love me.”
Astarion sighed overdramatically, leaning further into Gale's soft arms and shoulder. Warmth soaked into his body, like life returning to him.
“How ever will I cope?”
Gale laughed again, his head settling on white curls.
Tomorrow was never guaranteed for him, but Astarion had never thought too much about it. Mortality was rarely at the front of his mind, dying was little but an inconvenience when surrounded by clerics and magic. At the lowest point, dying was little more than an escape from a horrifying existence. His life, he found, had always had more to do with surviving.
But maybe it was time he started doing less surviving. Maybe it was time for Astarion Ancunín to live.